


bury the dead where they're found

by withthekeyisking



Category: Batman (Comics), Teen Titans (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Assassination, BAMF Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne Has Issues, Dead Jason Todd, Dick Grayson Kills Joker (DCU), Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Dick Grayson, Supportive Koriand'r (DCU)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:41:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29943948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking
Summary: Dick's little brother is dead, and he can't stop thinking about all the other people who have died because of the psychopaths that run rampant in Gotham. Can't stop thinking about how many more will die in the future. Can't help but remember that quote:If there's something wrong, those who have the ability to take action have the responsibility to take action.AKA the Joker kills Jason Todd, and Dick isn't going to let that slide.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson/Koriand'r
Comments: 60
Kudos: 224





	bury the dead where they're found

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place directly after [this scene](https://mycomicscenes.tumblr.com/post/633718853916082176/new-teen-titans-55) in New Titans #55, AKA the issue in which Dick learns about Jason's death and goes to see Bruce. This fic is a different take on what happens next :)
> 
> So I’ve had this fic written for a long time now, but it hasn’t made its way out of my drafts because there’s technically supposed to be more to it. However, the writing for the rest just hasn’t been happening, and I’m extremely proud of this fic and have gotten tired of not being able to share it out of the hope that my brain will get with the program. Despite the fact that there was going to be more, this really is a fic that stands by itself. I like the ending.
> 
> If my brain ever starts cooperating again then there will be a second chapter added to this of what I had planned to have happen next, but for now, this is a fic in and of itself. One that I’m quite proud of in fact XD So with that out of the way, I hope y’all enjoy!

Bruce has put up some sort of memorial in the cave.

It's Jason's Robin suit, freshly mended but still showing the signs of how torn apart it must've been. Dick wonders how much work Alfred put into fixing it, into making it look as normal as possible. Because fuck knows _Bruce_ isn't the one who put it back together.

No, instead he put it behind a glass case, in the middle of everything, unavoidable. A permanent reminder of the son he got killed, of his failure. No moving on, just grief and obsession.

Dick hates it. But more than anything he hates the words Bruce has chosen, hates that Bruce called Jason _a good soldier._ As if that's all he was, as if he didn't adopt Jason at his earliest convenience, as if he didn't play video games with him and take off patrol when he was sick and defend him to the media that called him street trash. As if he wasn't his child, as if he didn't matter, just a life lost to Batman's war on Gotham.

It makes Dick furious. More angry than he's been in a long time, more angry than even Bruce's fist hitting his face for no good reason just fifteen minutes ago. More angry than he felt at Danny for his cavalier attitude when telling him about Jason. Hell, maybe even more angry than he felt when Bruce adopted Jason and not him.

Because this is Bruce's son. This is Dick's _brother,_ even if not in blood or even legality. He misses him more than he thought possible, misses him like someone's ripped a hole right through him.

And Bruce has the _gall_ to take the Robin suit and turn it into a soldier's uniform. Bruce has the goddamn _audacity_ to relegate Jason to nothing more than _a good soldier._

No, that isn't going to fly. Bruce's stupid fucking coping mechanism to separate himself from his grief _is not going to fly._

Dick reaches forward and undoes the latch, pulling the case open. He runs his fingers over the fresh stitching, the places the suit was torn when that clown beat his little brother near to death. When he blew up the warehouse that fifteen-year-old _kid_ was in, as a fuck you to Batman.

Jason is dead, and Dick is _so angry—_

Carefully, Dick reaches forward, pulling the suit from where it hangs. He folds it piece by piece, setting it gently on the counter nearby. It isn't Bruce's to memorialize, to stare at, to view as a symbol of everything he's done wrong. He doesn't get to keep it. Robin never belonged to Batman, despite what Bruce thought.

Next, Dick grabs a screwdriver and removes the plaque, pursing his lips as he sees the words again and again. _A good soldier._

Like hell.

A good son. A good brother. A good grandson, friend, partner, student. A million things Jason was, and will never get to be again.

He places the plaque on the counter next to the Robin suit, and then crouches down to grab a duffle bag from a nearby shelving unit. He's gentle putting the suit inside; less gentle with the plaque. As much as he wants to leave it here, to never have to see it again, he refuses to let Bruce have it—knowing the man, he'd put it right back up, and that's the last thing Dick wants.

He'll dispose of it once he's far away from the Manor. He's sure as hell not bringing it into his own apartment.

He zips up the bag and turns to go, heading back towards his motorcycle in the garage of the batcave.

Dick pauses briefly as he passes the stairs that would take him upstairs and into the main body of the Manor. Alfred's up there, grieving for a boy he loved. And for the past month or so he's been grieving on his lonesome, stuck with Bruce who has already demonstrated to not be the best of company in these times. Alfred deserves a visit from Dick, a conversation with probably the only other person who truly understands what he's going through.

And Dick, himself, really needs that, too.

But Bruce is also upstairs, and his harsh words are still ringing in Dick's head.

_I suggest you leave. And give your key to Alfred on the way out._

_I don't need a partner. I never should have had one. And I_ never _will again._

With a grimace, Dick turns away, continuing towards the garage. He hooks the duffle bag onto the back of his motorcycle and then swings a leg over, starting the bike with a kick before speeding out of the cave.

* * *

He knows Kory is waiting for him back at their apartment, and that the rest of the Titans are anxiously waiting to hear from him, too, but he needs a minute to himself.

He finds himself going back to the cemetery, to Jason's grave. Kory was kind coming with him earlier, and he was grateful to have her supportive presence at his back, but it's good to go alone, too.

He's still surprised by the presence of the second grave, the final resting place of Sheila Haywood, right next to Jason. There's something so... _wrong_ about that, and it has Dick frowning.

Sheila Haywood never did a single thing for Jason except betray him, take advantage of his kind nature. She's the reason he's dead. She might be his mother, but only in the very loosest of senses—Catherine Todd was Jason's mother. She might not've been perfect, but Jason loved her and missed her like crazy. _She_ should be the one buried next to him in this fancy cemetery, not the woman who sold him out.

He can understand what Bruce was trying to do, that he was trying to honor the fact that Jason's last action was an attempt to save Sheila. But it's still _wrong,_ and he wants to destroy it as much as he wanted to dismantle the memorial in the cave.

Bruce is going about everything all wrong. Everything he's been doing, everything he continues to do— _none of it_ is honoring Jason the way he deserves to be honored.

Anger sparks in Dick's chest again, and his eyes sting as tears come to the surface. Jason shouldn't have to be honored. Jason should be _alive,_ should be doing homework and practicing his flips and sneaking junk food behind Alfred's back. He should be here, at home, living and breathing.

Instead he's lying six feet under, probably dressed in a suit that he'd absolutely hate, next to the woman who betrayed him to the Joker.

At least Sheila's paid for her crimes. But the Joker—the Joker is once again sitting pretty in Arkham, sure to break out in another few months and go on killing. He'll murder more sons and little brothers. He'll tear families apart. He'll laugh while he does it and revel in the chaos and pain he causes.

And then Batman will punch him a couple times and lock him back up, and they'll all repeat this cycle again and again and _again._

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.

Dick's never considered himself insane.

He turns away from the grave and heads back towards his motorcycle, double-checking that the duffle bag is still secured where it should be. He'd love to leave the Robin suit with Jason, but he can't risk someone seeing it, and he _definitely_ can't risk someone _taking_ it.

He pulls out the plaque and tosses it into a public trashcan.

* * *

The drive back to New York gives him some time to calm down, the wind rushing past him a familiar feeling even if it's not caused by jumping from a rooftop. He knows Alfred would chastise him over not wearing a helmet, but he can't bring himself to care at the moment.

It's dark by the time he pulls into the garage of their apartment building, and he uses the elevator trip to breathe deeply, trying to let go of the remaining anger lingering in him. Kory doesn't deserve to have it pushed off on her, though he knows she'd be good about it. She understands loss better than most, and would never judge him for his response to it. But even knowing that, he could never allow himself to hurt her, even if the cause is just. He loves her too much to allow his demons to poison her.

She'd probably say he could never poison her, that she's been through too much and done too much for that to even be a possibility.

But Dick's never quite felt this way before, this itching under his skin, this scratching- _burning_ feeling in his heart, clawing at the insides of his ribs, desperate to force its way out. He's intimately familiar with grief and rage and despair, but this isn't quite that. It's something ugly, something _raw,_ and it...scares him, just a little.

What scares him most is how he wants to let it take over and do whatever it wants.

Kory is sitting on the couch when he enters the apartment, and she looks up at him with concern. Her brow furrows at whatever she sees, and Dick sets down the duffle and offers her a tired smile before turning down the hall towards their bedroom, ducking into the bathroom and shutting the door behind him and then stripping.

The water is icy cold when he turns the shower on, but he steps in nonetheless, ignoring the way it makes him shiver. He wonders how cold Jason must be, trapped under six feet of dirt, the heat of a beating heart ripped away from him.

 _You weren't at the funeral. People_ asked _about you._

Dick's lips curl back from his teeth at the memory of Bruce's words, as if it was _Dick's_ fault that he hadn't been there, as if _Bruce_ hadn't been the one to deprive him of that chance. As if he hadn't been deprived of the opportunity to grieve with his family, to watch his brother be laid to rest. To see Jason—to see—

The hand on his shoulder startles him, and he reacts on instinct, lashing out and twisting out of the grip. But the assailant backs up, hands raised peacefully, expression concerned but not afraid, no never afraid—

"Kory," Dick croaks. "I—I'm so sorry, I didn't mean..."

"I know, dear heart," Kory murmurs.

She reaches out slowly, allowing him to track the motion and turns the temperature knob slightly, allowing the water to warm. Dick stares at her as she continues to warm the water bit by bit, allowing Dick to adjust before going further. Dick feels some of the tension in his shoulders loosen and he sighs, head tipping back against the wall of the shower.

Kory offers him her hand, and he takes it, allowing her firm grip to settle him. She draws him from the shower with a gentle tug, and he goes pliantly, suddenly exhausted. He allows her to wrap a towel around him and brush another over his hair to get rid of some of the worst of the wetness, then shuffles along beside her as she leads the way towards their bedroom.

"Lie down with me," Kory says softly, and Dick follows the instruction easily, sliding under the covers and curling against her, her hand draping around his waist and settling in the small of his back.

"What happened with Bruce?" Kory asks.

"He's wrong about so many things," Dick whispers. He knows that's not really a response to her question, but it's the first thing to come to his mind. "He's—Jason deserves so much more. He deserves..."

Kory's fingers brush softly across his cheek, and it throbs under her touch; he's going to have one hell of a bruise, he knows. Bruce was wearing his gauntlets, and certainly didn't pull the punch. Dick's lucky he didn't dislocate his jaw.

"Did he hurt you?" Kory asks evenly.

Dick lets out a slow breath. "Yes. But it's..."

He doesn't know where he was going with that. He's just seeing that stupid memorial again, that awful gravesite. Keeps seeing the headline that is sure to pop up in a few months: _Joker Escapes Arkham Again!_ And the one that will follow right after, that Batman has once more put the psychopath behind bars. And then a few months after that, and a few months after that...

"Dick?"

"It's so unfair," Dick murmurs. "Why does Joker get to live when Jason has to die? All of those villains, they kill and destroy and still they get chance after chance, back on the streets whenever they feel like it. Why does my little brother deserve to die? Why does Joker deserve to live?"

Kory strokes her hand through his hair in a comforting gesture, and he leans into the touch, his eyes sliding shut. He knows she won't judge him for what he's saying, won't be disturbed or feel the need to correct him. Dick barely understands what he's saying, only that he believes it, that it makes the itch under his skin get worse.

"Let's sleep," Kory says. "You need rest. Everything else can wait until the morning."

Dick nods, and doesn't move as she stands up to go shut off all the lights in the apartment. He breathes in the scent of her that clings to the pillow, and listens to the faint shuffling of her movements through the rooms. It's comforting, as is the press of her body as she slides back into bed beside him, curling close.

He keeps his breathing even, but he can't sleep. He feels when Kory drifts off, feels when she really hits deep sleep, but he remains wide awake despite the exhaustion that clings to him.

After an hour of just lying in the darkness, Dick carefully pulls himself out of her grasp, making sure to draw the blanket back up into position and keep her warm. She shifts, brow furrowing, but doesn't wake, and Dick pads silently from the room.

He goes out into the living room, approaching the wall of windows. When he first moved in with Kory, he spent so much time sitting in front of it, loving the view of the city, how high up they are, how far he could see. He took comfort from being able to see Gotham, as well, across the river. His first home always close by; even if Bruce wasn't welcoming, Gotham always would be. Gotham knows her own.

But now, he doesn't feel comforted by the sight. All he sees is a place that led to his brother's death, that leads to so many deaths. An amazing city that's been poisoned by its inhabitants, twisted into something disgusting because of a handful of horrible, _horrible_ people. So many people would be alive, if not for the loose explanation of _insanity_ keeping them alive.

Dick knows that they are truly insane, at least some of them. But that feels like such a flimsy reason now, a weak excuse for keeping _monsters_ alive.

They have no right to play judge, jury, and executioner. Dick knows this. He's known this since he was nine years old and chose to allow Tony Zucco to live. And he's always believed in it, believed in Bruce's one rule. Far more than a lot of his peers, that's for sure. But he believed in it, and he followed it religiously. He made his teammates follow it, despite some of their inclinations toward a more permanent solution.

And where has that gotten him? Jason's dead, same as so many others. Hundreds, _thousands_ lost to a war that never should've been allowed to even _begin,_ let alone continue for so many years.

Killing is wrong, Dick knows this. He believes that still.

But there are many worse wrongs in the world.

Who will be next? Which loved one, which friend will be the next casualty? A death he could've stopped? How many more innocents have to die before action is taken?

Morning comes before Dick is even aware of it, the sun peeking up over the city, rays bright in the sky. He hears Kory go into the bathroom and then the shower starts, and so he heads back into the bedroom to get dressed.

He's packing a bag before he's even completely aware of what he's doing, clothes and gear alike. He hears Kory enter the room again and feels her watching him from where she stands in the doorway, but he doesn't turn around, instead making sure he's got everything he'll need for an extended trip away; he doesn't know how long this will take, how long he'll need. Always better to be prepared.

When he's satisfied by what he has, he zips the duffle closed and finally turns to face Kory. She doesn't seem surprised by his actions, just looks at him with kind, understanding eyes.

"When you've completed whatever it is you need to do," she says, "all I ask is that you come home to me."

A lump lodges in Dick's throat, and he approaches her, kissing her gently.

"Always," he promises, and then slips by her and down the hall, before he can allow himself to change his mind and stay here with her.

He pauses briefly by the front door, where the bag with Jason's Robin suit still sits. He's struck by the urge to bring it with him, but he doesn't want to risk it getting damaged or taken from him, so instead he leaves it there, trusting that Kory will take good care of it.

He dials the phone number once he's in the elevator, the number he'd been given as an offhand offer and never expected to ever need to use, but kept in his head nonetheless, knowing the power of having this personal number.

It picks up on the third ring. _"Wilson."_

Dick's chest tightens, still incredulous with himself for this. "Slade, it's Nightwing."

There's a small pause, one Dick doesn't try to interpret, and then Deathstroke says, _"This is unexpected. What can I do for you, Grayson?"_

The elevator doors open onto the garage, and Dick steps out, heading for his motorcycle. "I want to hire you for something very simple."

 _"Is that so?"_ Slade sounds amused, like a grownup humoring a child, but Dick doesn't allow the tone to bother him. _"And what might that something be?"_

Dick slides his comm into his ear and switches the call to it so that he can drive and talk, and then heads out of the garage, speeding onto the streets of New York.

"I need access to one of your safehouses in either New York, Gotham, or Bludhaven; something where you currently have some of your gear stored. Weapons and the like."

There's another brief pause, this one obviously coming from a pace of incredulity. _"Why the hell would I give you that, Grayson?"_

"Because I'll pay you whatever you want," Dick says evenly. "And I'm not looking to go after any of your clients or interfere with any jobs, seriously. I just need some gear."

A thoughtful hum, and then, _"Bludhaven, 117 12th Street, apartment 5C. Key in the plant."_

Slade hangs up immediately after giving the address, and Dick blinks in surprise, both at how easily Slade gave the address and the abruptness of the hang up. But he's not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, not even when it comes to Deathstroke.

The trip to Bludhaven goes smoothly, though he doesn't know the streets nearly as well as he knows Gotham or New York, so it takes him a moment to orient himself in the right direction and get to the correct building.

He pushes the buzzer for a random apartment, and an elderly woman's voice comes through with a quiet, _"Hello?"_

"Hi," Dick says, pulling on a chagrined tone. "I'm afraid I locked myself out of the building! Would you mind buzzing me in?"

The old woman doesn't say another word, but she _does_ buzz him in as requested, so Dick considers it a success.

He makes his way up to the fifth floor, admiring the fancy lobby and elevator along the way. This is definitely a high-end place, and while obviously he knows that Slade has money, he wasn't expecting him to put so much money into a random safehouse. Are all his places like this? He must spend a fortune. Slade's never struck him as someone who cares overly much about surrounding himself with the finer things in life.

As mentioned, there's a potted ficus tree next to the 5C door. He digs his fingers through the dirt and finds what he's looking for, pulling the key out and brushing it off. It fits easily in the door's lock, which Dick had briefly wondered if it actually would; there was always the possibility that Slade was just being an ass and messing with him.

But no, the door swings open, admitting Dick into a fancy apartment that matches the rest of the building, all sleek lines and minimalistic furniture.

As he's closing the door behind him, he realizes he can hear other sounds coming from further into the apartment, what sounds like something frying, and someone moving around.

Frowning, Dick sets his bag down and makes his way towards the noise on silent feet, peering around the doorway. He finds that it's a kitchen, just as expensive-looking as everything else, and there's a familiar man standing in front of the stove, poking at something in a pan.

Slade is dressed rather casually in a t-shirt and jeans, and doesn't even glance over at Dick, though he must know he's there. His free hand points towards the kitchen island and the stools with it, and Dick follows the unsaid instruction for lack of anything better to do, sitting down.

He doesn't know why Slade brought him here instead of just either telling him no or sending him to a random safehouse that fit the requirements Dick asked for, but he's not going to leave, not before he gets what he wants.

The kitchen remains silent for a while as Slade cooks, and then the older man puts food on two plates and places one in front of Dick before sitting across from him on another stool.

"Now," Slade says, taking a bite of bacon. Dick's confused at the choice of food for a moment before he remembers that it's not even seven in the morning. "Why is it that you want some of my gear, Grayson?"

Dick purses his lips and uses the side of his fork to cut off a piece of one of the over-easy eggs on his plate, the yellow inside oozing out. Everything looks professionally cooked, which is rather strange to Dick, much like the fanciness of the apartment; Slade doesn't seem like someone who would waste any effort in making _good_ food, just food that's edible and contains a solid amount of nutrition.

"If you were gonna turn me down, you could've just said no," Dick points out once he's swallowed the bite. "You didn't have to drag me all the way out here."

"I didn't say I was turning you down, I asked what you want with my gear. A majority of it is supposed to be _lethal,_ you get that, right? Go back to the Bat if you're out of toys; mine aren't to be played with by little heroes."

Dick scowls at him. "I don't intend to _play_ with them," he snaps. That itch under his skin makes itself known again, and he rolls his shoulders against the feeling, against the _itching-scratching_ clawing at his chest once more.

"Then what do you intend to do with them?" Slade asks. His gaze is perfectly level, far too perceptive.

Dick clenches his jaw. He can't say it out loud. He can barely bring himself to _think_ it, not really, not in any specifics of what he's doing. How the hell could he admit it to _Deathstroke_ of all people?

Slade takes a slow sip of coffee, watching him. Something sparks in his eye, and when he lowers the mug back to the table there's a faint upward curl to his lips.

"Grayson," he says with relish, "do you intend to utilize my weapons in the way they're designed? _Lethally?"_

Why does Jason have to die, and Joker gets to live? Why do all those Rouges get what really amounts to a free pass even when they kill and injure and traumatize so many people? Why do innocents have to feel enormous amounts of pain, and the ones who dealt that out only have to sit in a cell for a few months before inevitably breaking out again?

The Joker has killed _thousands,_ and will kill thousands more if given the chance.

Dick doesn't want to give him the chance.

"Robin is dead," Dick says.

Slade's chin dips in a shallow, somber nod. "I know, kid. Everybody knows." There's something extremely honest in his voice when he adds, "I'm sorry."

Dick wonders if he's thinking about Grant, about Joey, the two sons he lost. Joey was only a little bit older than Jason was, both of them dying far too young. Both sweet, intelligent people, dedicated to doing good in the world. Slade never met Jason, but he knows what it means to lose someone like him.

Dick doesn't know if he's jealous of Slade for having been present when Joey died while Dick couldn't hold Jason, or if he pities the man instead. But considering the way Joey died...no, Dick can't muster up any jealousy for that.

"Yeah," Dick says tightly. "Yeah, I'm sorry too."

"So you're going to kill the Joker."

Dick's heart pounds in his chest, blood roaring in his ears. The _itching-scratching_ claws harder and harder, the words singing under his skin. _So you're going to kill the Joker._

Dick takes another bite of his food, and finds himself...oddly calm. He doesn't cringe away from the words, doesn't flinch, doesn't feel guilty for what he's planning on doing. That's unexpected. He thought being confronted with it would be...

Well, be something more divided than the overwhelming, satisfied feeling of _yes._

"Will you let me use some of your gear? I know there are other places I can get the stuff if you're uninterested in helping. This just seemed like the best option, in terms of making sure the gear would be high-level and untraceable."

"Stop calling it _gear,"_ Slade says firmly. "If you're committing to this, call what you're asking me for by what it is. You don't want _gear_ from me, kid. You want...?"

Dick swallows.

"A gun," he says softly. "I want you to give me a gun. And ammunition that goes with it, and a silencer."

Slade gets to his feet and walks out of the room, the sounds of him fading away. Dick takes a slow sip from the glass of water in front of him.

Slade returns, a pistol in one hand, a block box in the other. He sets the box down on the kitchen island and then, without saying a word, he holds the gun up so Dick can see it clearly, front and back. Then he purposefully flicks the safety off and on; next he ejects the magazine and pulls the slide back to eject the bullet in the chamber, both of which he places on the island. He pulls the trigger, and it clicks hollowly.

Out of the box he pulls a silencer, and screws it on, twisting it so Dick can see the connection point, and then removes the silencer once more.

He stripes the gun with easy, practiced movements, and Dick can admire the grace in it. He tracks everything Slade does with keen eyes, because he knows what Slade is doing; he's _teaching._

When Dick was younger, Bruce taught him to shoot. Despite the fact that he hates guns more than almost anything, he insisted that it was important to have the knowledge under his belt, to not be ruled by fear. So, Dick knows how to fire a gun. And knows the basics of how the mechanics of them work.

But it's very different to have an infamous mercenary show you how to use a gun safely as you prepare to...to kill the man who killed your little brother. It's an unbelievably different feeling than standing in the batcave with Bruce, the man's movements not stilted but tense nonetheless, a quick lesson to make sure Dick knows, and then never spoken about again.

Slade has no hesitation, no tenseness to his posture. He handles guns on a daily basis, and could probably do this in his sleep. While Dick _definitely_ doesn't agree with Slade's line of work, he can admire the skill.

When Slade's finished stripping the gun and putting it all back together, he offers the grip to Dick across the island, gaze steady.

Dick swallows and reaches out, taking the gun in his hand. It's heavier than he expected, and he adjusts to accommodate before drawing back, holding the gun.

"Now you do it," Slade orders, and Dick does as he's told. His fingers fumble over the slide when he removes it, and the frame jams momentarily before releasing, but he manages to take it all apart and put it back together again.

"Again," Slade orders, and Dick does as he's told, far steadier this time.

"Again," Slade orders, and Dick smiles a little as his hands move quickly, starting to become familiar with the motions.

"Again," Slade orders, and Dick casts him an exasperated look.

"Slade, I think we've established that I can do it."

"That's my gun you're going to be taking with you in order to kill a man," Slade says seriously. "Which means you're going to know that weapon inside and out, know it like the back of your hand. You're going to be able to field strip it and reassemble it with your eyes closed. Do you understand me? If not, give it back; you know where the door is."

_In order to kill a man._

Does the Joker count as a man? Hasn't he long forfeited his right to call himself anything resembling human?

"Okay," Dick says softly, and then gets to work.

Again and again and again; he knows this gun like he knows his own heartbeat.

And just when he thinks they're done, Slade steps around to his side of the island and wraps a piece of cloth around Dick's eyes, tying the knot in the back.

Dick sighs. "Is this really necessary?"

"You heard me before. Now do it again."

So Dick does.

And again.

And again.

"Alright," Slade says with approval, "you can take it off."

Dick lowers the gun and pulls the blindfold off of his head, tossing it down onto the island.

Slade looks at him with an appraising eye.

"What?" Dick asks.

Slade shakes his head a little. "Just didn't think you'd actually make it this far."

Dick's face scrunches up. "It was just the same task over and over again."

"Yes," Slade agrees, but draws the word out a little. "But it's a _gun_ you're handling, a gun you apparently plan to use to murder someone currently locked up in a cell."

Dick feels his anger spark. "Are you seriously judging me?" he demands.

Slade snorts. "This isn't _judgment;_ I'm saying I expected you to fold. But you, Grayson, seem to be rather calm." One side of his mouth curves up. "Welcome to the world of the killers, kid."

Something inside of Dick twists. "I'm nothing like you," he says quietly.

"You're about to commit premeditated murder," Slade points out, amused. "Maybe you're not on my level—not yet—but you're definitely not as _pure_ as you'd like the world to believe, are you?"

Dick never claimed to be pure; it was everyone else who declared him the _Golden Boy._ And he certainly isn't claiming it today. Today he's...Jason is dead. So many are dead. Dick won't allow the cycle to begin again. Never again.

He gets to his feet. "Thank you for this, Slade," Dick says honestly. "I'm gonna go now."

"Good luck," Slade calls after him as he walks back down the hall towards the door. "And if you ever want to fill any contracts, just let me know."

Dick ignores the laughter in Slade's voice, picking up his duffle bag and leaving the apartment once more.

* * *

He has to wait for nightfall, he knows that. It's the best option by far; less security, more prisoners sleeping, less attentive guards.

He _knows_ that. But it doesn't make waiting almost an entire day easy.

He re-familiarizes himself with the layout of Arkham, spending his time in a safehouse of his own in Gotham studying the guards' rotation schedules, the locations of the cameras, the profiles of the men that will be working tonight.

He says it all aloud to himself, over and over again, not looking at the papers, making sure he truly has it memorized. He strips the gun again and again just for something to do with his hands, and then he stretches, and makes himself a meal, and watches the horizon for sundown desperately.

He knows Batman's patrol schedule, knows how to time it so that Bruce will be on the opposite side of Gotham. Just in case. Dick has no intention of being seen and _definitely_ no intention of being caught, but he wants to give himself as many advantages as he can get, if something goes wrong. Bruce being far away will give him more time.

Distantly, Dick is aware of how _easy_ this is, with everything he knows, everything he can do, everything he has access to. How _easy_ it is to get away with it, at the end of the day. How all his training could turn away from heroism, with just the slightest push.

_One bad day._

But Dick has no intention of turning away from being a hero. That's not what this is. At the end of the day he's going to go home, going to join the Titans, going to continue on with his life. He's not naïve enough to think this won't change him, but that's a gamble he's willing to take. This is the right thing to do, he knows it.

The Joker deserves to die. They all deserve to die. Bruce clings to his one rule like a madman, like it's the only thing separating him from being an awful person. And maybe it is. Maybe Bruce's control is that fragile, that if he takes that step he won't be able to come back from it.

Dick has always had impeccable control. He knows his limits, and what he's capable of. Maybe once, maybe even not too long ago, that would've scared him. Maybe it still does, he's just too numb to feel it yet. But he knows he can do this and still retain his sense of self. He knows he can do what Bruce is incapable of, and still go home to the woman who loves him, and sleep soundly in their bed.

He dresses in his Nightwing costume because it's the best he has for something like this without going to the batcave, and he can't go there, for so many reasons. He does pull on an extra vest to cover up a majority of the blue, though; it won't fool anyone who gets a direct look at him, but if it's just a quick flash of him going by, they won't know it's Nightwing.

Along with his domino mask he covers the lower half of his face as well, drawing up a second mask and tucking it over the bridge of his nose. It's weird to breathe through the cloth, unaccustomed to it, and for some reason it's the sensation of his own warm breath against his skin that really nails in that he's actually doing this.

He doesn't allow himself to linger over that, in case it makes him doubt himself. He's sure of his decision, filled with conviction now that the time's almost upon him, and hooks the gun to his utility belt.

Dick is intimately familiar with the rooftops of Gotham, and that would be his first choice of moving through the city, but he doesn't want to risk getting spotted too soon. So instead he takes a black motorcycle—not his own, but one of the millions of extras Bruce possesses and has hidden all across the city in case of emergencies—and admires the way the engine is near-silent as it takes him through the streets.

He parks in the woods near the front gates of Arkham, and from there everything is as easy as breathing, following the plans he's been studying all day.

He's spent years sneaking around in the dark, breaking into places and escaping unseen. Bruce definitely never meant for those skills to be put to use in this manner, but he trained him well nonetheless.

So it's barely more than child's play to make his way through the halls, avoiding cameras and guards and the eyes of any prisoners still awake.

He makes his way to the very center of the facility where the worst of the worst are kept.

He makes his way to the Joker's cell.

Before entering the final hallway, he pulls the pin on a smoke grenade, one filled with knockout gas. It's a brand he knows won't have any effect on Joker, not with how much the psychopath has exposed himself to chemicals over the years, but it will send all the other prisoners in the general area to sleep. He's already looped the camera feeds for this area, and the guards aren't due for another thirty minutes.

It's just him and the monster who killed his brother.

Killed so many people.

Will _continue_ to kill many more.

Dick counts in his head until he knows the gas will has taken effect, and then he walks forward, finally stepping up to the Joker's cell.

The Joker is standing, peering outside, head cocked like a bird as he observes the smoke dissipate, looks at how the prisoner in the cell across from him—Two-Face—has dropped into a deep sleep.

The Joker's gaze lands on Dick, and then his face splits into a wide grin, delight sparking in his eyes. He recognizes him, of course. The vest and the face mask wouldn't be enough to disguise him from the man who's tormented him since he was nine years old. The Joker recognized when he became Nightwing, would probably recognize him as anything anywhere. Same as Bruce.

Would've been same as Jason, if the Joker hadn't murdered him instead, taken away the chance of creating his own identity one day.

"Nightwing! To what do we owe the pleasure?" the Joker asks, a wild grin twisting his features.

Dick didn't really think of what he'd want to say once he was here. Joker wouldn't feel guilt, when confronted by what he'd done. He'd laugh, he'd brag, he'd needle until Dick snapped at him and that would only increase the Joker's joy.

Whatever Dick says now, it's for himself, for Jason. For the thousands the Joker has killed. It's not about the Joker, not anymore.

Suddenly, Dick is desperate to do this as himself. He ignores the risks, pulling the vest off and tossing it to the floor, then pulling down the mask over his lower face. Nightwing stands tall and proud, determination scorching his bones.

"You killed Robin," Dick says.

He takes the gun from his belt. He sees the Joker's eyes flick to it, and somehow the grin gets larger. He stalks forward and drapes himself against the bars of his cell, tapping a finger against his chin in mock-thoughtfulness.

"Did I? Hm, yes, maybe I remember doing that." The grin twists with malice, delighting in the pain he's caused. "He screamed so _pretty_ for me, Wingy. Kids these days, they just can't take a swing from a crowbar. I blame those participation ribbons, you know, making kids so _soft..."_

Dick is surprised by the lack of rage that fills him, by how the Joker's words just roll right off his back. No, he simply feels like he's thrumming, like there's a low-level current of electricity running through him, the _itching-scratching_ pulsing in time with his even heartbeat.

Joker's taunts mean _nothing_ to him. He'll be gone soon enough.

The Joker leans in further, pressing his face into the small space between two bars. "His name was _Jason,_ right?"

Dick raises the gun. He makes sure the silencer is attached probably, and flicks the safety off. The Joker is looking at him like he's a dog that's performing a weird new trick, and Dick wonders if the man is expecting him to back down, to follow the One Rule declared by Batman.

"Ya gonna kill lil' old _me,_ birdie?" The Joker holds a hand to his heart in mock hurt. "What would dear _daddy_ say?"

"You killed Robin," Dick says again. It's as simple as that.

He pulls the trigger.

The Joker crumples to the ground.

Dick stares as life fades away, as a trail of blood spills out the back of the psychopath's head. That manic grin is still fixed to his face, even in death. Rather fitting, he supposes.

He makes himself turn away, turn _around,_ face the cell across from the Joker, where Two-Face currently rests on his bed, deep in sleep from the drugs.

When Dick was twelve, Two-Face beat him with a baseball bat half to death. His knee still aches when it rains because of that.

That's not why he's on the list, though. It's because there's not a single repentant bone in the man's body for anything he's done, and he's made it clear that he'll continue on the next time he gets out. He always continues on with the pain and death he causes.

He, much like the Joker, will never stop. There is no redeeming Harvey Dent, not anymore. Despite what Bruce hopes for, hopes to have his friend back. It won't happen, and Dick knows it.

Dick's gun has eleven rounds; he has eight targets at Arkham.

He aims and fires, and Two-Face is just as dead as the Joker.

Dick continues on. In the cell next to the Joker is Harley Quinn, another on his list.

She's probably the only person on the list that he holds any sort of regret for deciding to take out. Because he knows there's potential for good in her, or at least not pure evil. He knows that the Joker has poisoned her, and with time she could get better. Probably _would_ get better.

But she's spent too many years at his side for Dick to be able to separate them. She played a hand in Jason's death. So Dick has to set aside the potential for recovery, after everything she's done. He can't risk it. And he can't leave Jason's justice unfinished.

So with one more bullet, Harley Quinn is dead.

Dick turns to go for the next cell, but movement catches his eye, and his head snaps over to look at the cell across from Harley, where Poison Ivy should be passed out same as the rest of them.

Instead, she sits there wide awake, gaze fixed on him.

They stare at each other. One corner of Ivy's lips curve upward, and she inclines her head.

"He was a sweet kid," she says.

Ivy isn't on the list; he's seen the good she can do, when she sets aside the ecoterrorism. He knows she's been learning that about herself, too.

Dick draws in a breath and then lets it out slowly. "He was," he agrees.

Ivy leans back on her hands, chin jutting to the next cell. "Well go on then, Boy Wonder. Secret's safe with me."

Dick can't help the way his own mouth curves to match her small smile, and he inclines his head right back, moving on. He doesn't know why, but he believes her. She won't tell anyone it was him.

Next is Mad Hatter, a man who takes pleasure from mind-controlling people and raping the girls under his control. No more. Never again will someone have to fear their will being taken away and abused.

Another bullet, another death.

After him is Hugo Strange, another mind-controller, another man who delights in the horrible things he can make people do for him. A man who abused his position of power to do _experiments_ on those in his care.

He goes just as easily as everyone else.

Then Scarecrow. Penguin. Victor Zsasz.

And then he's done, they're all dead. His Arkham target list is complete. Eight people are dead by his hand. Eight villains will never have the chance to hurt anyone else.

He feels...

Satisfied.

Dick walks back towards the Joker's cell, nodding to Ivy along the way, and picks up the vest that he dropped, putting it back on. He pulls the second mask back into position over the lower half of his face. He flicks the gun's safety back on, and connects the gun to his belt again.

Then he leaves, same way he came in.

* * *

Dick gets on a plane heading for Ethiopia.

He doesn't know why he feels such a strong urge to go see the place Jason died, but he does. It's not hard to track the exact location down—it's not like there have been an abundance of exploded warehouses in the last six months—so it takes him no time at all to learn where the right place is, and then make his way there.

There's been no attempt at construction to fix the building or even to tear it down, Dick can see. It's still exactly as it must've been when Bruce found Jason amongst the rubble, a burned-out husk of a place.

It's a strange feeling, stepping forward into the remains of the building. This is where his brother died, where his life was stolen from him. Where he was betrayed, and beaten, and left to die.

The remains of the bomb are gone, because of course they are, but it's not hard to read the signs and figure out where it had been when it detonated. He makes his way over to it and crouches down, brushing his fingers over the marks left behind.

There's something almost holy about this place, something that has Dick closing his eyes and saying a silent prayer for Jason's soul.

Dick's not really a religious man, never has been. But he knows there's something More after death; he's encountered too many people who have dealt with Heaven and Hell and everything in between to ignore the existence of something after death, maybe even some form of higher power.

So if all of it truly is there, if there's a good place and a bad place, Dick really hopes Jason is happy in the good place. He hopes that maybe the boy's found peace, even if Dick knows he himself won't find it for a long while now.

He's killed the Joker, he's avenged his brother, avenged all the people that monster killed. He doesn't regret it, not for a single moment. Countless people will continue to live because of Dick's actions.

But his little brother is still dead, and nothing he's done will ever change that.

Dick rises to his feet, taking a slow breath in and then letting it out. He heads back towards the front of the crumbled building and picks up his bag from where he put it down. Then he walks away.

He doesn't look back.

* * *

Dick's exhausted by the time his flight lands back in Gotham. Twenty hours is a long time to spend on a plane, and he feels like before that he was moving nonstop.

He feels drained, and he's aware enough to know that it's not just because he's physically tired. He took multiple lives just a couple days ago, and that's no small thing. He's confident in his choice, but it's still...a big choice.

He flew to Gotham instead of New York because he wants to go to Jason's grave again, wants to tell his little brother what happened, that he's been avenged, that so many others have been, too. He thinks Jason would be proud of the way he handled it, would be happy to know that Dick took care of it. The deed is done, the villains are dead; Dick will sleep well in his bed. He knows so many others will, too.

Jason won't ever get that chance again. But at least his killer is gone.

Dick holds his duffle over his shoulder and makes his way out of the airport. It's the end of April, and true to form rain clouds hang in the sky, but the sun is still bright over his head. He tilts his face up, soaking it in, breathing in the familiar smell so unique to Gotham City, and then he flags down a taxi, giving the address of one of his safehouses.

Before he goes to see Jason he's determined to take a shower, wash the travel off of him.

The trip isn't too long, and he gains entry into the apartment easily enough with the input of an old code. He drops his bag off in the bedroom and then strips as he heads to the bathroom, flicking on the shower.

As he waits for the water to heat, he looks at himself in the mirror, examining his features. There are slight bags under his eyes from lack of sleep, and some dirt clings to the undersides of his arms, but otherwise he looks exactly the same as he did five days ago, before he knew that Jason was dead. Before everything changed.

He steps into the shower and sighs softly at the warm water, tilting his head back into the spray. He allows it to sooth his tired muscles, rolling his shoulders against the tension that seems to always be there these days. Leading a team is never easy work, and throwing in all his continuing problems with Bruce and now Jason's death...

They could all use a break. Maybe Dick will organize one for his team, once he gets back. Get some others to take over for them for just a little while, and then go to some island somewhere and just relax. Kory will appreciate it, he's sure.

Dick shuts the water off and steps out of the shower, grabbing a towel and drying himself off. He wraps it around his waist and then grabs another, beginning to towel dry his hair, rubbing over his black locks.

He grabs a t-shirt and jeans from the bedroom dresser; they've been there a little while, he knows, but he knows they're clean and he can't say the same as the clothes in his duffle.

He grabs the duffle and heads back out, hanging the towels on the hooks in the bathroom to dry on his way back to the front door. But as soon as he steps into the living room he pulls up short, a familiar figure standing over by the couch.

With a sigh, Dick steps further into the room. He heads towards the door and drops his duffle bag next to it, then turns to face the man head on.

Bruce looks much the same he did the last time Dick saw him, though in a regular suit instead of the batsuit, and the angry snarl is at least absent. Dick doesn't know whether or not that means this won't devolve into physical violence, but it can't hurt, that's for sure. He looks tired, like he hasn't slept in months, and it's a feeling Dick can relate to.

"Hey, B," Dick greets. "Can I help you with something?"

"The Joker is dead," Bruce says bluntly.

Dick doesn't blink, his expression doesn't shift. He was expecting that Bruce would eventually come to see him over this; Dick might've covered his tracks perfectly, but the thought would be sure to niggle in Bruce's head, the _what-if._ The timing was so perfect, the Joker and the others dying the night after Dick learned about Jason's death. And the way Arkham's security was circumvented, that takes skill. Skill Bruce knows he possesses.

But, Bruce has no proof. He'll never have anything actionable. And Dick doesn't care if this changes the way Bruce looks at him forever, doesn't care if this suspicion has permanently damaged their relationship. They never could've gone back to normal anyway, not after everything. Too much pain and heartbreak, too much betrayal and bitterness.

They were changed forever the moment Bruce fired him. They were changed again with Jason's death, and Bruce's fist hitting his face. It's irreversible, and Dick feels no pull to try to reverse it. Not anymore.

"I saw it on the news," Dick agrees.

He hadn't; having spent a majority of the last few days either in another continent or on a plane, Gotham news wasn't exactly something he had easy access to, nor did he go looking. When he gets back home he'll look it up, see what the news stations are saying about the deaths, how they're being interpreted. What the police's standpoint is on the event. How the people of Gotham are responding.

Bruce's lips pinch. "Seven others were killed as well. Harley Quinn, Two-Face, Scarecrow—"

"Mad Hatter, Hugo Strange, Penguin, Victor Zsasz," Dick finishes for him. As if he'd ever be able to forget. As if he wouldn't remember for the rest of his life what it was like to lift a gun and take a life. As if their faces wouldn't haunt his dreams for the rest of his life. As if he didn't carry in his heart the weight of what he's done.

Dick doesn't regret his actions. He made his decision, and he stands by it. He will always stand by it. And if he ever doubts himself, he knows he'll be able to count on Kory to hold him and assure him that he did the right thing for Jason, for himself, for the people of Gotham.

He doesn't regret his actions. But that doesn't mean he doesn't understand how big this is, doesn't feel it deep down to his soul that he killed eight people. Horrible people, yes, and there's no guilt over it. But he will always remember.

"What have you done, Dick?" Bruce asks tightly after a long minute of silence.

Dick considers his answer. Bruce knows the truth, or at least strongly suspects it, and Dick's done nothing so far to dissuade him from that thought. He doesn't really want to, either. Bruce has no proof, will never be able to prove it unless Poison Ivy talks, which Dick knows she won't. So there's no danger of Bruce turning him in and sending him to prison for the deaths; even a terrible lawyer would be able to get it tossed out before it reached trial.

Besides, even if by some bizarre chance it _did_ go to trial, there isn't a single group of people in Gotham who would convict him of his crimes. They're all breathing a sigh of relief right now, saying _good riddance_ to the people who made their lives hell. They wouldn't send him to prison, and they would feel righteous in their decision to set him free.

Dick is golden. Maybe that's bad, maybe they should all be ashamed, but Dick doesn't care. He's not ashamed, and none of them would be, either.

So Dick says, "I did what you couldn't."

Bruce bristles, anger sparking in his eyes. "You—"

"I mean it," Dick interrupts. "Because I get it, you know. Your thing about how if you kill someone it would be a slippery slope, and you'd keep killing. I get it, that you see that as truth. That you understand how flimsy your control apparently is."

He glances down to his duffle, where the gun sits safe and sound. He'll ask Slade if he wants it back, but Dick wants to keep it. He has no intention of ever needing to use it again, but it's an important thing to him now. The tool he used to take eight lives, to avenge his brother. He doesn't want to give it back to Slade where it will become just another weapon in his arsenal again. This gun is important, it has _meaning._ So much meaning.

"But my control is rock solid," Dick says, looking back to Bruce. "I didn't make this decision lightly, nor was it spur of the moment. I understand what I've done, how serious it is. I understand what it means to take a life. And killing the _Joker_ isn't going to make me suddenly think it's okay to kill random drug dealers on the street."

"We don't kill," Bruce grits out. He's so clearly trying to control himself, fists clenched at his sides. He's so obviously agitated, but Dick is just...calm.

"This time we do."

"It doesn't work like that, Dick!" Bruce snaps. "We don't get to play God! We don't get to decide who lives and who dies!"

"Do you understand how many people the Joker has killed, Bruce?" Dick asks lowly. _"Thousands._ A tally that grows every few months when he breaks out once again. But he's insane, so he's not put to death as anyone else would be. He's a _terrorist,_ Bruce, plain and simple." Dick pauses, blinks. _"Was_ a terrorist."

That will take some getting used to.

"And Penguin?" Bruce challenges. "Hugo Strange? They're not even in the same _ballpark_ as the Joker!"

Seems Dick isn't the only one who will have to adjust to past tense.

"Tell me honestly, Bruce," Dick says. "Do you think Oswald was insane? Clinically insane, no understanding of his actions?"

Bruce narrows his eyes and says nothing, but Dick knows that's because Bruce's answer is _no,_ and he doesn't want to give it.

"So why was he in Arkham?" Dick demands. "Hugo Strange understood the consequences of his actions when he experimented on his patients. Why wasn't he in Belle Rev?"

Bruce doesn't have an answer to this question, just like Dick knew he wouldn't. It's something that makes no sense, something so unfair that sometimes it makes you just want to _scream._

"So many people in this city get to claim they're _insane_ and get to save themselves from the punishment they should receive. Just because they have a _gimmick_ doesn't mean they don't deserve to be punished."

"And you think you get to be that punishment?" Bruce demands. "You think you have the right to play judge, jury, and executioner? Who gives you the right?"

"No," Dick says softly. "No, none of us have that right. No one _gives_ us the right. Sometimes, though, we just have to _take it."_

"When you kill again," Bruce says, "I will stop you."

There are a million things Dick could say in response to that. A million things he could do. He could ask when he lost Bruce's faith so thoroughly, because it seems like it's such a done deal in Bruce's mind that Dick will resort to killing, that he doesn't have the control over himself that he claims. He could argue his point further, try to get Bruce to see his point of view, but that would just be pointless.

This whole conversation is pointless, at the end of the day. Bruce isn't going to make him feel guilty, and he isn't going to make Bruce understand. Irreversibly changed, the pair of them. Dick will just have to wait and see what their relationship is like going forward.

Dick picks up his duffle bag. He doesn't need to listen to this any longer; he has a grave to visit, and then a home to get to. He has no interest in listening to Bruce preach at him any longer.

"Dick," Bruce says sharply, an attempt to stop him from leaving. Dick sighs.

"You're the one who labelled us soldiers, Bruce. And soldiers kill to save innocent lives."

Bruce says nothing to that. There's nothing to say.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _The Only Thing_ by Sufjan Stevens
> 
> Thoughts? :)


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